by Elle Gray
“I feel special.”
“As you should. There are very few in this world whose intellect I respect.”
“I guess I’m one of the lucky ones, huh?”
“As I said, I feel a kinship with you. A certain fascination. You might even say it’s an obsession.” As if his words aren’t strange enough on their own, he then starts to sing: “You are an obsession. You're my obsession. Who do you want me to be?”
He lets out a high pitched, tittering giggle. It’s creepy and makes my skin crawl. At the same, my head is spinning with the surreal turn this conversation has suddenly taken.
“Wow,” I say. “That was… something.”
He laughs softly. “Well, I never claimed to be good enough to be on Star Search. But I do well enough to get by.”
“That is true.”
There’s a brief pause on the line, and in the background, I hear the ferry horn going off again. He’s got to be close to a terminal for it to be so loud and clear.
“Well, this has been a pleasant conversation, Paxton,” he says. “And I look forward to more.”
“What makes you think I’m going to play your game?”
I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. “Because you and I are more alike than you care to admit,” he says. “There is nothing that excites you more than the chase. Nothing gets you off like the thrill of the hunt.”
It’s eerie how well this man seems to know me. Eerier still how similar he and I actually do seem to be. I can’t refute his words. They’re true.
“And maybe I needed you in my life just as much as you needed me,” he says. “We both needed something to fire us up, didn’t we? Something to bring us both back to life?”
As much as it galls me to admit, he’s not wrong. Again. It galls me to be so similar to a man who’s murdered at least thirty-six people. I know I’m not him. That I’m not a killer. But having so much in common with a man who is a killer is disquieting. To say the least. I would be lying if I said it didn’t leave me feeling a little bit rattled.
“I will be speaking with you again soon, Paxton,” he says. “You have a pleasant evening.”
The line goes dead in my hands, and I stare at my phone for a long moment, processing and digesting the whole conversation. It’s only then I realize how stupid I was for not recording it and silently chastise myself. He just caught me flat-footed and unprepared.
I won’t let that happen again. Next time, I’ll be ready for him.
Fourteen
Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle
“He’s arrogant. Almost narcissistic. He’s cold and calculating,” I rant. “Condescending, though I think he believes he’s being complimentary. He has an overabundance of self-confidence and truly thinks he’s the most intelligent person to walk the Earth.”
“Oh my God,” Brody says. “It’s you. You’re the killer.”
He erupts into laughter that fills the conference room. I cut a glance at Blake, who is physically struggling to keep the smile off her face. It’s a fight she ultimately loses, and she bursts into laughter as long and loud as Brody’s. I roll my eyes at her and wave them off.
“Et tu, Brute?”
“Oh come on, that was funny,” she points out. “Lighten up, Arrington. Learn to laugh at yourself a bit.”
I lean back in my chair and take a drink of my coffee, letting them have their moment. I’m not amused by the reminder of how similar to this man I am. It’s something that kept me up for a good chunk of the night obsessing about it. Finally, their laughter fades, and they sit up, doing their best to keep the smirks off their faces. An endeavor they’re not even close to being successful at.
I look at the notes we’ve written and pictures taped to the whiteboard at the front of the room. We’ve turned our client conference room into our makeshift HQ. Blake was finally given the green light to look into Hayes— though she was ordered to do it quietly and discreetly— but she’s been able to add to our cache of information with the case files she pulled. No doubt, if we make an arrest, they’ll trumpet that so loud, they’d probably hear it in China.
It’s being classified as an unofficial investigation for the moment, and Blake isn’t being given any additional manpower to look into it. But that’s fine. More people will only get in our way. The last thing I want is to have to explain— and defend— my participation to a hundred other people. I have a hard enough time keeping Blake off my back about it.
“Okay, so what else can you tell us about him?” Blake asks.
“I’m putting him in his mid-to-late forties—”
“Why is that?” Brody interrupts.
“His references. He sang a line from an eighties song— “Obsession” by a group called Animotion—”
“Wait, he sang you a song?” Brody smirks.
I roll my eyes. “He sang a line from that song. I don’t know why.”
“This is getting creepier and more bizarre by the minute,” he chuckles.
“You don’t know how creepy. You didn’t have to hear it live,” I tell him with a smirk.
“Thank God,” he replies.
“What was the line?” Blake asks, her interest piqued.
I recite the line for her. “You are an obsession. You're my obsession. Who do you want me to be?”
“Wow. Sounds like he’s got a mancrush on you, Pax,” Brody raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like if he has his way, you’re going to be picking out china together soon enough.”
“I don’t think that’s how he meant it though,” I reply. “In the context of the conversation, it’s more a case of he’s intrigued by me. Says he’s obsessed with my intellect. Somebody he thinks can challenge him. Match wits with him.”
“Yeah, that’s not arrogant or anything.”
“I’d say it sounds we’re dealing with a malignant narcissist,” Blake adds.
“You’re talking about the killer and not Pax, right?” Brody chimes in.
A small and unexpected laugh bursts from my throat. Even when I’m irritated and trying to focus on something, every once in a while, something Brody says will hit me when I least expect it. Even a joke he might have cracked just minutes before. I don’t know; maybe it’s a tension reliever. Sort of like turning the pressure release valve in my brain before I hit critical mass. Maybe Brody recognizes that in me, and that’s why he’s always popping off and trying to keep the mood light around me. Maybe he sees that darkness inside of me that Hayes referred to and does what he can to mitigate it.
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” I say.
“No?”
I shake my head and screw up my face, trying to order my thoughts so I can recount the conversation on the fly, once again kicking myself for not recording the conversation so I could just play certain parts for them.
“He said that he respects my intellect and that I’m the first person in a long time he thought could challenge him,” I explain.
“So this is all a game to him,” Blake notes. “And you’re the only worthy player.”
I nod. “Something like that.”
“But that fits because this is less about your intellect and how your intellect matches his. The impact you have on him,” she continues. “This is all about him and his wants, and really has little to do with you, Pax. You just happened to be the person who clicked with him. This is his game, and you’re just a bit player.”
I take a moment to digest her words and realize what she’s saying makes perfect sense. As I replay the conversation over in my mind, I see that she’s right. This really is all about him. I don’t know how I didn’t see that before.
She smirks. “He really is your Moriarty.”
“Yeah, I had that thought too.”
“What’s a Moriarty?” Brody asks.
I roll my eyes. “Never mind.”
He looks at me for a moment with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, then blows out a breath and waves me off, irritated. I chuckle, which earns me anoth
er baleful look.
“How do you figure he’s in his forties though?” Blake asks.
“The references. The song. It’s from 1984. He also mentioned Star Search,” I say. “It was some talent show back in the eighties. He seems comfortable in that decade. My guess is that he was a kid back then. Which, if true, would put him in his forties today.”
Blake nods. “Not bad, Arrington. Not bad at all.”
“Wow man,” Brody pipes up. “You do have a brain in that head of yours. I’m impressed.”
I shrug. “It narrows certain things down. But age is the hardest thing to predict anyway,” I say. “It could be helpful, but we shouldn’t necessarily get hung up on it.”
“What else did he say?” asks Blake.
I run a hand through my hair as I think. Some of what he said I don’t want to repeat. Not until I’ve had some time to sit with it and think or wrap my head around it all anyway. Some of it I may never want to talk about.
“Oh, I heard the ferry in the background,” I tell them. “So he’s got to be somewhere close to the Sound. Judging by how loud it was, I’d say he’s near a ferry terminal.”
“That narrows it down,” Brody groans.
“It does, actually,” Blake says. “At least we have a specific geographical region as opposed to having to cover the whole state. We know he’s local.”
“That’s true,” Brody acknowledges. “Good point.”
“For now,” I reply. “Given that he’s killed all around the West Coast, he may not stay here long. Though I suspect this is his home base. He always returns here.”
“What makes you think that?” Brody asks.
“Just a hunch,” I reply. “Just a feeling.”
“So far, your feelings have been pretty decent,” Blake says.
Brody’s phone rings. The sudden, shrill bleating in the stillness of the room is jarring, and all three of us jump. He scrambles and is able to silence it quickly. He looks at the display screen, and I see that familiar, goofy smile on his face. Turning his phone face down, he raises his gaze to mine. I just chuckle.
“Go,” I say.
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” he says.
Brody grabs his phone and dashes out of the conference room, stopping by his office, before darting to the elevators. Brody likes to be able to come and go as he pleases, and I don’t have a problem with it simply because when there is work I need him to do, I can count on him one hundred percent of the time. I know he’s not real thrilled with what we’re doing right now. Chasing a serial killer isn’t his thing. But if I need any background details, digital records, or anything tech-related, he’s there, no questions asked.
“What was that about?” Blake asks.
“He’s apparently got a nooner.”
She nods. “A little afternoon delight, huh?”
“Skyrockets in flight.”
She laughs and shakes her head as I drink my coffee. She looks over as her laughter tapers off, then stops, and I can see her scrutinizing me. I hate the way she does that. She looks into me like she can see right through to my very soul. Can discern my every feeling and my every thought. And it’s annoying because she’s usually right on the money about whatever it is she’s seeing inside of me.
“What aren’t you saying?” she asks.
“Why can’t you stop reading my mind?”
“What can I say? I’m fascinated by blank pages.”
“You’re a jerk,” I laugh.
“I learn from the best,” she replies pointedly. “So come on. What is it? Something he said obviously has you rattled.”
I tear strips off the cardboard sleeve on my cup, frowning as I think about it. I haven’t gotten a firm hold on the things running through my head yet. I don’t particularly want to talk about it until I do. But if there’s one person in this world I can talk to, it’s Blake. I don’t think I can even share what’s going through my head with Brody. As much as I love and trust the guy, he’s a clown and would rather laugh and joke things off, rather than have a serious talk and figure them out.
But Blake is different. Even if she can’t relate to something, she’s got a keen mind. She’s sharp and sees things differently. Blake is definitely an outside the box thinker, and that’s one of the reasons I think she’s an excellent FBI agent. Things aren’t just black and white to her; she sees all the shades of gray in between.
So I tell her. I recite the whole conversation, start to finish. Having hyperthymesia comes in handy sometimes. And when I’m done, she sits back and stares at me with a thoughtful expression on her face for a long moment, that big brain of hers working overtime.
“You do know you’re nothing like him,” she starts. “You know that, right?”
A wry smile touches my lips. “Honestly, I am,” I reply. “He pretty much described me to a T.”
“Except for the fact that you’re not a killer.”
“He thinks I can be.”
She arches her eyebrow. “You think he’s trying to groom you?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Or maybe he’s just trying to get into your head, Pax.”
“That could be too. I guess it worked,” I admit. “But he’s honestly not wrong. There are a lot of similarities between us.”
“But you have the ability to show compassion and empathy,” she presses. “True sociopaths don’t.”
“I fake it, Blake. I don’t feel those things,” I sigh. “I just learned to mimic those emotions well enough to get by.”
She sits back in her chair and takes in what I just said, looking a bit stunned and a little shocked by it. I know the feeling.
“I could be just like him with one push the wrong way,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “That’s bull. You have got one of the strongest moral compasses of anybody I’ve ever known.”
“Do I though? Do I really?” I ask. “I lie. I manipulate people to get my way. Like you tell me over and over, I’m arrogant.”
She cocks her head and looks at me. “And none of that makes you a killer. The defining trait is that you know right from wrong, and you may dance on that line, but you never cross it,” she urges. “Jesus, this guy did a number on you. I’ve never seen you doubt yourself like this.”
I don’t know that I’ve ever doubted myself like this before. And yeah, Hayes did do a number on me. She’s right about that. He nudged me toward thoughts I’ve had all my life but have tried to stifle and ignore. But there are times, usually when I’m alone and my mood is dark, that I wonder if I could do the unthinkable. There have been times in my life when I’ve wondered if I could actually do it. If I could take a human life. Times I’ve wondered if I could kill and keep killing.
I never talk about it. I don’t share that side of myself with anybody. I never even told Veronica I’d had those thoughts when I was younger. I figured it would scare her. That I would scare her. When we got together though, those thoughts all went away. It was like magic. My mind was finally quiet, I felt at peace, and I never thought about whether or not I had what it took to be a serial killer again.
Not until Hayes brought it up last night. It was like pulling the scab off an old wound. And now my mind is festering with those thoughts, and that terrible darkness is once more covering me like a shroud.
“I can prove to you in one single word that Hayes is wrong, and you’re not a sociopath,” Blake says.
“One word, huh?”
“Veronica.”
“And that proves… what exactly?”
A small smile pulls the corners of her mouth upward. “It proves that you have the capacity for genuine human emotion. That you have the capacity for love,” she says. “Unless, of course, you were faking it with her?”
Growing up as an Arrington meant that my life was filled with forced social interactions. I was expected to speak and behave in a certain way. I was forced to observe certain social norms and know my social graces, even if I despised the person I was being fo
rced to interact with. Being an Arrington meant I had to fake my way through most of my life.
But that all changed with Veronica. She saw through the facade and never demanded that I be anything but who I am— who I really am— with her. She would not tolerate that genteel veneer that being an Arrington requires. She was the first person who wanted me to be me. Just Pax. Not Paxton Arrington, heir to a media empire. And I loved her for that. I never had to put on airs or pretenses with her. For the first time in my life, I could just be me and that was enough. I was enough.
A wan smile crosses my face. “No, I wasn’t faking it with her,” I say quietly. “I loved her with everything in me. I still do.”
“And that right there proves that you are nothing like Hayes.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I won’t deny that you check a lot of boxes on the sociopath profile. I’ve said that for a while,” she says.
“Pretty much from the day we met.”
She laughs softly. “Okay, that’s fair,” she replies. “But what I’m saying is that the similarities between you and Hayes are what will allow us to catch him.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you know how he thinks,” she says. “You’ll be able to predict his actions.”
“I think I’ll be able to better predict his actions based on his behavior more than our shared personality flaws.”
“So you’re a profiler now, are you?”
I flash her a grin. “Couldn’t be any worse at it than you feebs,” I crack. “After all, I am smarter than you lot.”
“There’s the cocky bastard I know and adore.”
Talking it out with Blake has helped settle my mind. At least, somewhat. But I’m feeling a bit better about things, and not like I’m teetering on the edge of becoming a serial killer anytime soon. She’s given me some much-needed perspective. Which is one of the things I appreciate most about Blake: her level-headedness. That and her willingness to give me a swift kick in the butt when I need it.
“Thank you, Blake,” I smile.
“Anytime, Pax.”
